The Princess That Never Was
by Rahja
Summary: What if Henry VIII's sister Elizabeth had lived? Thrown into the snakepit of European politics, the Tudor princess that never was will change the course of history... and this is her story!
1. Henry

_Preliminary Notes:_

_**To the followers of my other stories:**__ I have been very busy in my new job which kind of forced me to stop writing altogether. Especially for God Works in Mysterious Ways I can say that I would need more time to really focus on some very important scenes I've been working towards for many chapters, but I don't really find that time. Instead, I decided to share this story of short snippets with you, which is just about as much as I can manage to write on my way to work atm. Hopefully, things will get better in summer though. Please stay tuned!_

_**About this story: **__Henry VIII had a sister named Elizabeth, who was only one year his minor, but history forgot about her since she died very young. But what if she hadn't? How would it change Henry, England, and Europe if Elizabeth Tudor remained on the chess board? Find out in this story in which Elizabeth herself will tell you about her life and the people who shaped it. Who is Elizabeth Tudor? How did she change the course of history?_

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ONE – Henry and me

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When I think of my father, I often wonder who he really was. This of course is not meant to doubt my paternity – it is abundantly clear who my father was, if not by grace of my mother's unquestionable virtue, then by looking at my eyes. Nobody fails to notice and eventually mention that their shape and greyish shade look exactly like his. Unlike many other children of my time, I know for certain who my father was – King Henry VII. But I still ponder the question of what this man was really like.

Today, he is known as a former king of England and founder of the Tudor dynasty without a doubt. But I vividly remember that things didn't use to be like that during his reign when he had to fend off pretenders and rebels calling him a usurper of the throne. Even though I do not doubt my father's God-given right to rule England, I can understand their cause. His claim to the throne was weak at birth, but when he took the crown, there was no other Lancastrian claimant left, and I think there can be little doubt the Yorkists were the real usurpers. It may sound harsh to speak this way about the people who were my mother's family, but I have grown used to speaking hard truths over the years. King Richard was no rightful king and it was my father's right to depose him.

But people did not love him. Many tried to rise against him and even today, he is mostly thought of as an old miser who knew nothing but dusty books with tiny little numbers in them. It hurts me to hear people say such things not only because misjudge the good his parsimony did to this country, but mainly because they didn't know him at all. Did I know him? That's the real question.

I know some things for sure: That he was a thoughtful man who placed reason above whims and duty above pleasure. That he was very close to his mother, Lady Beaufort, who had worked hard to keep him safe and foster his career. And that he loved my mother. It might seem strange to think that a man as sober as my father was capable of love, but I cannot think it otherwise remembering how he treated my mother with such care and respect. Unlike most kings, he never took mistresses, and always showed great interest in her well-being and happiness. He was as good a husband as any noble lady could wish for.

He was also no bad father, even though his royal duties kept him away from us most of the time. Today I know it is only natural for a man of his position to be hardly involved in his children's upbringing, but at the time I often wished he would spend more time with us and was miffed when he didn't. Still, I remember many incidents that lead me to believe he loved each of us indeed. At three, I fell dangerously ill, and even though he was forbidden to come to my sick bed, he had a groom watch over me night and day and report him back, and when by some sort of miracle I did survive, he rushed to my side as soon as the physicians said it was safe.

Whatever people say, he did care for us and we meant something to him. When my brother Arthur died, I recall him sending for the rest of us to come to court for the comfort of my mother, but when we arrived he hugged all of us more tightly than ever before. I could see in his face that we were also there for his comfort, even if he never dared to utter that.

A year later, when Margaret was sent off to Scotland, he asked her for a private audience and would talk to her for more than half an hour, which was very unusual. I never knew what they had spoken about, but from what would happen later I guess he was expressing his pride and love for her in the only way he knew: He wasn't a man of many words, but of good council, and that was his way of doing things. Perhaps his lack of words was also fostered by the fact that mother had died just a few months before Margaret left the country. He hadn't had many words then either – a messenger arrived in Greenwich to inform Margaret, Harry, Mary, and me about our little sister's stillbirth and our mother's childbed fever. By the time we arrived at court, she was already in God's hands. That was what my father told us: "Your mother's soul is in God's hands now. Pray for her." Back then, I was furious at him for being so distant, but remembering the look on his face now, I understand that he was trying to be strong for us. Inside, clearly, he was broken and would never be mended again.

So who was he? I'm asking myself this question because these days, I feel compelled to think about the most important private conversation we ever had, which is odd. Why am I remembering this now? Perhaps because it changed my life?

"Elizabeth," he said to me when I had entered his office. Yes, he had an office just like a clerk, and it was usually stuffed with papers and books and dimly lit by what seemed like a thousand candles. "Tell me what you know about the French and Spanish ambitions in Naples."

"I know the French lost two years ago. Naples now belongs to Aragon," I dutifully told him everything that I, a girl of fourteen, knew about these political matters. I had not heard about my father's inquiries into the recently widowed Queen of Naples's beauty then.

"And you know that our relationship with Aragon has been difficult since your brother's death?"

I silently nodded. I did not know every detail of the problems surrounding Catherine of Aragon and her plight in the countryside then, but I understood that there was some trouble that needed to be resolved.

"Good," my father said. "Then you understand that we cannot neglect these Italian matters."

I nodded again, this time lying. I did not understand why Italy should be any concern of ours, but I trusted in my father's wisdom as a man and a king to know better than me. He rewarded me with one of his rare, wry smiles.

"You look more and more like your mother."

"Do I? People often say I have your eyes," I returned surprised.

"You do, but your smile is hers, and your brows, and your hair. She gave you the best she had to offer."

I blushed. It was childish, perhaps, but I was only a girl and enjoyed being praised for my beauty by my father. Every girl wants to be their father's princess, I presume, even real princesses.

"When she married me, it was not for love, but for the sake of her family and the greater good. She did it for England, you see?" He suddenly said in a different voice, his eyes wandering off to the light of a candle. "And the Lord rewarded her with many beautiful children and a good life as queen, even though he decided to call her away. But her faith in him and dutiful behaviour were repaid. We are all repaid for our goodness when the time comes."

His words baffled and shocked me. I had never heard such philosophical thoughts from him before and for a second feared that he was dying and trying to share some wisdom with me before it was too late. But then he added:

"When the time comes, you must be like her, Elizabeth, and have faith, too."

And then I understood completely, and I nodded. I had known before that this day would come, the day he told me I was going to be married.

"Of course I will, father. If my future marriage can help you and England, I will not doubt it and trust in your good care. I know you would never choose a husband for me who is ungallant."

"No, I wouldn't," he replied, but oddly it sounded more like a question. "You will have a good life."

"May I ask if you have anyone in mind, Your Grace?" That was my notorious curiosity getting the better of me.

"Italy," he said, now making it clear to me what his previous questions had been about. "The Medici family has been driven out of Florence when the French dashed through on their way to Naples, but they are sitting in Venice waiting for their return. They are still well connected and very rich, especially with one of them being a Cardinal, and with the Naples situation being such, it is only a matter of time until they regain Florence. We might do well allying us with them. Their financial support could be crucial."

We both sat there in silence now. I was wondering if he had said similar things to Margaret a few years ago when he promised her to the King of Scotland. What he thought at this moment I will never know, but after some time, he added:

"Lorenzo de Medici is your age and grandson of Lorenzo the Magnificent. I hear he is a talented musician also."

There was something hopeful in his voice, but also something excusing. I knew this was the closest he would ever get to asking my opinion about the matter, and it warmed my heart to know that he cared for my happiness.

"I hear Italy is lovely at this time of the year," I replied smiling.

Now he looked at me again, his wrinkled eyes looking satisfied and relieved. "Yes, I believe so, too."

A month later, Lorenzo and I were officially betrothed. That was in 1506, but it was agreed that I would not leave for the continent until I was older. Today I think my father was buying time to see how the wars and struggles in Europe would continue. Perhaps it was also due to the fact that he was rumoured to think of marrying Catherine of Aragon himself then, but I think he would have never actually gone this far. In fact, while her youth and family background made her a desirable bride, her affinity to my brother would always remain a bar to any other Tudor marriages. My father even once made Harry swear he would never marry Catherine, though we all know how that came about later. Sometimes I think my father should have been stricter and more serious about this matter and we'd all been spared a lot of trouble.

The day I set sail for Italy was a cold and windy day in late January 1509. My father did not escort me to Dover claiming that important matters requested his presence in London, but he held a feast in my honour and gave me a slender, silver bracelet as a personal gift before I departed. I treasure it to this very day just as I treasure what would end up being the last words he ever said to me:

"May your voyage be pleasant, or if God has other plans, may it be the least unpleasant he sees fit."

I like to think that he was not only referring to my passage to Italy, but to my entire life, for all we do between our birth and death seems like one big voyage to me. Of course, back at the time I thought nothing of the sort, but I didn't know these would be the last words I would hear from him, either. When we parted, he placed a fatherly kiss on my forehead and nodded sternly at my brother Harry, whom he had entrusted with escorting me to my vessel and making sure I left England in good spirits. I looked out of the carriage one last time as we left the courtyard, not knowing that only a few months later, the King I called my father would be dead.

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_Hope you enjoyed the first short chapter. I'll try to update this once a week until it's done. So stick around for chapter number two, in which you will learn about Elizabeth's early days in Italy and her growing involvement in the powerful Medici family! Please feel free to leave a short review! Cheers, Rahja_


	2. Simonetta

_Welcome to chapter two and thanks for the reviews! In this chapter, you will meet Simonetta, who is based on the real woman of the same name, although I don't know what her real age at the time was. Who is she? And how will Elizabeth's Italian marriage turn out to be? Read and find out!_

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TWO – Simonetta and me

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Before I can speak about my relationship with Simonetta, I must first mention the circumstances which led to my meeting her and which transformed me from the obedient English princess I once was. In 1509, I married Lorenzo de' Medici and thus entered a world very different from mine. The Medici, despite their loss of Florence, were powerful and ambitious and extremely entangled in the current troubles of the country. Italy had been cursed by wars for some decades now. It was a "pit filled with snakes", as my mother-in-law told me the day before my wedding. I had no idea what I was entering into.

Lorenzo was no help. I do not want to join this new-fangled leaning to scold one's husband as ungallant, but neither will I lie. He wasn't a bad man nor a bad husband, but being only seventeen, like me, and having a rather close-lipped personality, Lorenzo wasn't someone I could rely on. But that was exactly what I needed, for I felt utterly strange to Venice. The climate, the clothes, the language, they were all alien to me. In the first months, I felt very grateful for having joined Harry's Latin lessons at an early age, for most of my fellow noblemen spoke Latin. Lorenzo, however, enjoyed conversing in the vernacular Italian, a language which sounded odd to my ears. It seemed like a dumbed-down version of Latin to me and I could not fathom what brought him to like it.

Nevertheless, I tried my best to learn and adapt quickly in order to please my husband. I did not want to bring shame to my family. Unfortunately, the news of my father's passing arrived only a few weeks after my wedding. Needless to say, I was devastated. He may not have been very close to me, but I assume every child loves their father unconditionally. My children certainly do, and they have barely any memory of him. But there I was then, a young foreign princess with a broken heart. My only comfort was Simonetta.

She was a maid of my mother-in-law, a sturdy woman in her twenties with darkish skin, but pale green eyes. Her father had been a moor, she told me, and that was everything I ever heard about the matter. It certainly did not matter to me, for Simonetta was an outsider just like me, and in this, we were alike. She took an immediate liking in me because, as she later told me, I looked like a "lost little duckling" at my wedding day. But it was my father's death that brought us together and founded our friendship, for she found me crying in my room.

"Do not cry, Madonna, or the mistress will hear you," Simonetta said and closed the door behind her. She then held me and listened quietly as I sobbed about my father and the fact that I had not been able to really say goodbye to him and that I had not expected him to die so soon. She was very sympathetic, but when I had ended she handed me a piece of cloth and told me to show strength. My mother-in-law, she said, would otherwise think me weak, which would not prove beneficial for my marriage. I was so surprised by her concern for me that I obeyed.

This relationship would continue over the years. Simonetta was a cunning woman with a heart-warming laughter, and despite her strange looks, many men were attracted to her. So, too, was Giulio de' Medici, son of the heinously murdered Guiliano de' Medici, who had been famous for his good looks. Giulio took after him in that and the fact that he was as close to his cousin, Giovanni, as their fathers had been. He was an aspiring man who supported the ambitions of Giovanni, the family head whom we all simply called "the Cardinal". I knew of his love affair with Simonetta and I knew it was not going to end well, but I helped her to conceal it from my mother-in-law Alfonsina nonetheless. Why not? We were friends, we were young, we were carefree. It was only when she got pregnant that things started to change.

I did not know it then, but the decision I made to save the day was the first of many hard decision my life would force me to make, and I was only eighteen at the time. Simonetta only confessed to me that she was with child, and this time it was her who was sobbing in my arms. I comforted her and told her I would think of a way to save her. But the stakes were high: The child's father would never be able to marry her since Giovanni had lately expressed plans of making him a clergyman, too. Even though clergymen often fathered bastards at the time, it would do no good to the family's cracked reputation, and I had inkling that a shining reputation would soon be necessary. The Cardinal would wait only a few years before proving me right.

"You can pass it off as Lorenzo's. He will acknowledge it," I told her a few days later.

"I can't, Madonna. It would put shame on you!"

"Not so much as it would shame the family if anyone knew the truth. The Cardinal will see that it is wise. He will make Lorenzo acknowledge it if we propose the thought to him. He will want to make sure that Giulio's child is safe and well taken care of, and you would not be separated from your child. Does that not make you happy?"

She nodded and embraced me, not saying anything further about the matter. I knew that people would laugh behind my back once this became public, that they would ridicule me for not baring my husband a child after one year of marriage when a half-Moorish servant could. Had my father still been alive, I would have been too afraid to risk this, but now I felt more compelled to help my friend than anything. My brother Harry, who was now King of England, would surely understand. He had always been more emotional than our father. If he ever heard of the matter, I knew I could make him understand. We had always been close.

I then wrote a letter to the Cardinal and somehow I feel that this was the moment I entered that special field of war which is euphemistically called politics. I had begun to meddle in others' affairs. There was no going back now.

The Cardinal accepted my reasoning and did as I suggested, and thankfully, he did so without ever mentioning my name. Gnawing his teeth, Lorenzo then came to me and told me he had been ordered to accept the Cardinal's bastard as his. He made no excuse towards me, though he did seem sympathetic for what this must mean for me, but instead he promised me that we would soon have legitimate children and Simonetta's child would be forgotten. I nodded and smiled, not telling him that I would make sure the baby would never be forgotten. It was a boy whom we named Alfonso to please my mother-in-law. Simonetta had originally wanted to call him Alessandro, but when I told her how much I liked that name, she stepped back and told me I should keep it for my own sons. I still think about that moment a lot, especially when looking at Alessandro today.

Whether or not Alfonsina ever knew that Alfonso was not her grandson I cannot say, but she was clearly as suspicious as she was furious. When he was born, she did not speak to either Lorenzo or me for a full month after telling him he had acted morosely and me that I did not fulfil my wifely duties properly. She could be very strict about matters that she deemed important and the future of her offspring was one such thing.

"You have to understand that she is an Orsini," Simonetta told me in the year after my wedding. "The Orsini are a very powerful family themselves. There were even Orsini popes. And when she married your late father-in-law, may God keep his poor soul, they had very high hopes for her. But the master was no fortunate man. He lost everything his father, the Magnificent, had built. He lost Florence. He drowned in a river. It is not easy being the wife of such a man."

To this very day, I have never liked Alfonsina, but I always reminded myself why she did things the way she did them. She wanted to make the best of a dreadful situation and ensure the fortune of her son and daughter. She was a woman playing the game of politics and thus no stranger to slanderous nicknames like "she-wolf." From today's point of view, I even pity her a bit, but to me, she was a mean old hag nevertheless because of her ill treatment of Simonetta after the birth.

Alfonsina kept her as a maid, but always made sure she got the lowest of tasks and had no contact with Alfonso. It was quite troublesome to distract her long enough for Simonetta to see her son, but somehow I always managed to perform this miracle. It was a dangerous game to play behind her back, but for me it was worth it. And fortunately for Simonetta and me, the events soon came thick and fast.

In 1512, Spanish troops financed by the Medici defeated the officials of the "usurper Republic of Florence", as the Cardinal called them. The siege of Prato led to the abdication of Piero Soderini, the head of state, and the Medici return to power in Florence. But what was even more important to me was the fact that in that year, I finally gave birth to my first child after an arduous ordeal of 36 hours which I am sure I only survived because Simonetta held my hand the entire time. It wasn't a son, but I still considered it a major yield for my marriage that I had given birth to a healthy child, so I suggested we name her Vittoria – victory. Lorenzo, who was just as eager to please his mother, readily agreed. "Pretty thing. She would be a fine bride for my Alfonso," Simonetta joked after the ordeal was over. Laughing weakly, I replied: "But they are considered siblings," to which Simonetta grinned and said: "Didn't stop the Borgias, though."

Not even a year later, the Cardinal was elected Pope and became Leo X. It was now clear to everyone that the Medici star was on the rise again. Alfonsina and I, however, could not enjoy this at first, for we both fell seriously ill with a fever like many other Florentines. The Lord decided to spare our lives, but the sickness lost me the child I had been carrying. Thankfully, my mother-in-law was still too weak to scold me for it, and Simonetta assured me that in time I would be having healthy children again. It had simply been bad luck, she told me.

That's what she was like: Optimistic, supporting, with a hint of sarcasm. I have met many women in my life, many of high birth and some of good education, but I have never found someone to resemble her cunning and good-heartedness. There was no malice in Simonetta da Collevecchio, which is more than I can say about any other man or woman out there. She was as true a friend as ever I had. When I had to leave Italy in 1519, I felt worse about leaving her than about leaving my husband. I got to see her again, for which I am very grateful, but it before I can speak about matters so far away from 1513, I need to tell you about another person of importance in my life, a man a met only months after my dreadful sickness and the painful loss of my child:

Niccolò.


	3. Niccolò

THREE – Niccolò and me

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My relationship with Niccolò began in one of the most unlikely manners possible: It began in a dungeon. It seemed curious to me that a man who had risen so high had now plunged so deep and fallen so low, I admit it. I obtained my husband's permission to see the incarcerated because I was curious, but hardly did I have any idea of what I would find in the Florentine dungeons. Sitting there in the dark was a man in his forties whose ambassador's clothes were ragged by weeks of imprisonment and, as I rightfully assumed, torture. Still, his posture was upright, and the small dark eyes divided by an elongated nose looked at me with natural curiosity. The Medici had accused him of conspiracy against our family and tried to break him, but they had not succeeded. I was impressed.

When he realized by my lavish gowns that I was no gaoler, he rose from the mouldy bench he had been sitting on and said:

"Madonna, I would take off my cap for you if I had one."

That sentence in itself already says more than a thousand words about Niccolò. That sharp, unblazoned sarcasm combined with his impeccable manners was his true nature. I fought hard to prevent myself from giggling since I thought it overly inappropriate in this environment.

"Are you Signore Niccolò di Bernardo dei Macchiavelli?" I asked with as much composure as I had to offer.

"Yes, Madonna, I am. And who is it paying me a visit in this dark place?"

I don't know why, but I found myself answering: "Make a guess." And to my surprise, he seemed to like the idea. There was a devilish grin on his face.

"If you wish. Let me think aloud, Madonna: You are a lady of high birth, granted by your manners, and you obviously have a sense of fashion and the means to afford it." I blushed as he said this because my dress had been Simonetta's choice. "Your face does not seem familiar to me, nor does it bear familiar features, so I assume you are no Floretine lady. Taking into account the way you speak your 'r's, I would rather take it you were of foreign birth, most likely English. This and the fact that you were permitted to access the dungeons then leads me to embrace the assumption that I have the honour of speaking to Signora Elisabetta de' Medici, sister to the King of England."

To be honest, I was stupefied by the flawlessness with which he had come to this conclusion. I had not realised it back then, but I already loved clear rational thinking and never before met anyone so dedicated to it as him.

"You are right, Signore," was all I call respond.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Madonna. May I inquire what leads you into this darkness?"

"I…" Frankly, I was too intimidated by his wits to tell him the truth. I felt like a stupid child for coming down here just to look at a man who had once been one of the most powerful officials of the city. "I merely wanted to make sure you were well taken care of. I hear that you are to be released within the week."

"Oh, is that so? That is news to me," he replied. "Wonderful news, in fact, even though I am grateful to your husband and His Holiness for their hospitality. But I do prefer the countryside this time of the year."

His words were dripping with sarcasm. I must have looked at him in a mixture of awe and sadness over his impending release and absence from the city. I don't know why, but I wanted our conversation to be much longer than just these few minutes.

"You will leave Florence, then?"

"I have a lovely estate in Sant'Andrea in Percussina. Haven't been there in ages. Stately affairs are quite a hindrance with regard to leisure time… of which I assume I will have more in the future."

I nodded and, barely audibly, whispered: "What a pity."

Somehow, Niccolò must have heard me nonetheless, and he laughed warmly at my honesty. "Do you really think so, Madonna? I am sure your husband will be more than pleased to be rid of me."

Even though his laughter wasn't unfriendly, I felt spoofed by it and stiffened my back to talk back to him. "But my husband is not me."

His laughter ceased. "Of course not," he replied more seriously now. "And I would not oppose to return the favour of hospitality to you if you ever happen to travel by."

"Thank you," I murmured back.

That's how it all began. Of course I took advantage of his offer, even if I had to wait eight months for a chance to visit him in Sant'Andrea without my husband or my mother-in-law becoming suspicious. Simonetta, as always, was my co-conspirator and helper.

"I feel like I am preparing to cheat on my husband," I told her nervously before I left Florence.

"Are you?"

The bluntness of her question surprised me. "What? No. Why would you think that?"

"He is a man and you are a woman."

I shook my head forcefully. "No, no, not at all! He is old and… no! It's not like that. I just want to converse with him. He is so… insightful."

"Are you sure he thinks the same way about you?"

Simonetta was right to ask that question. A man twice my age, was I insane to come up with excuse for a journey that would happen to go through the city he was living in? But I thought too highly of him and his mind to embrace any thought of romantic intentions on his behalf. Not him, I told myself. But the question was asked and it would haunt me for the rest of my life. I would often hear people whispering behind my back, especially in later years, when Niccolò frequently returned to Florence to take part in several intellectual groups which he invited me to join. I knew people were suspicious of our friendship. Even Harry heard about these rumours in England as he later told me, but he promised he had never doubted me. Alfonsina certainly did, although she never said it to my face. But Lorenzo? I don't know.

I understand why people were thinking this way, and in a way they were right: Niccolò soon meant much more to me than my husband ever would. He pushed open a door to a bright new world of Renaissance enlightenment for me, of learning and questioning and debating. We spent the entire day of my visit in Sant'Andrea discussing his opinion on the First Ten Books of Titus Livy. I had not read the opus, but he eagerly explained everything to me, and by nightfall I was already head over heels involved in his train of thoughts. He would later publish them as his "Discourses on Livy" and I cherish the copy he sent me as one of the most precious things I will ever own, alongside the bracelet my father gave me when I left for Italy.

What began that night never ceased until my departure from Italy. We met as often as we could, either in Florence or the countryside, and he let me into his world of pure and fascinating thoughts. We discussed everything he had ever thought of – his profound and shocking analysis of the ways Duke Valentino had murdered several men, including another duke; his attitude on French affairs; his interest in ancient Roman arts; his deep insight into the art of war; and, of course, his numerous discourses about the cities of Tuscany, their history, and their current political troubles.

It is hard to say which of these was most important to him, but for me, the most striking conversation we ever had was concerned with his 1502 work about the provision of money. A dull topic, I know, but when I started to tell him about my "miserly" father, he was completely hooked, and we spent seven solid hours discussing the modalities of pecuniary politics. I loved it.

What about "the Prince", you might ask now? What about his most famous work that coined the term "Macchiavellian" even in English? I cannot deny its importance for my life, since it was dedicated to my husband – which was Niccolò's way of dedicating it to me without attracting too much attention. And it embraced the love for realism over idealism that we both shared. I often thought about it in later years when my views clashed with those of Harry, who, despite his interest in the book, would have certainly never liked Niccolò, and vice versa. I can also not overstate the impact the book had on European politics when it was published after his death.

But despite all this, I do not like to speak about it. Many people today do so and with so little knowledge, and it hurts me to see how they prey on Niccolò's words without even aspiring to fully understand him. They seem like vultures to me, picking out only the things that suit their cause, especially those who want to condemn Niccolò as a teacher of evil. They destroy the beauty of the thoughts expressed in "the Prince", thoughts which emerged in many wonderful hours of conversation, and which I feel should have never belonged to anyone else but Niccolò and me.

These people wrong him and it makes me bitter to listen to them. Niccolò, a harbinger of the devil? That very same man whose greatest pleasure was to dress in the proper robes of a statesman and discuss the ideas of great ancient philosophers? The man whose love for learning even made him forget about poverty and death? No, not him. He was the man who shaped me into the woman I am now, into the politician I grew to be, and I will never believe any of the slanders against his name. I knew him better than all these people.

Were we lovers, then, you might ask? Were the rumours true that my son, little Alessandro, or even his sister Eleonora were Niccolò's? Was I flouting my marriage vows for a man twice my age? Was I cuckolding my husband? I highly doubt Lorenzo ever believed these rumours, for he only saw what he wanted to see and cared for nothing else. Besides, he took mistresses himself, one of which also gave him the French disease which would eventually kill him. There would have been little need of a bad conscience for me. Nobody ever dared to ask me directly, so nobody ever got an answer, not even Harry, or Lorenzo, or you. It doesn't matter, anyway. The past is in the past, and all you need to know to understand my life is how important Niccolò's brilliant mind was for me. Yes, in a way you could say that Niccolò dei Macchiavelli was, in fact, my making.

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_AN: If you wonder about the purpose of this chapter – its point is to shape Elizabeth into someone who can be a politician in her own right, someone with a clue. She will need these wits soon enough- Henry VIII's Great Matter is about to begin! Stay around for the next chapter!_


	4. Catherine

_AN: Back to English soil at last! Finally, Elizabeth will meet one of her brother's wives. How will she and CoA get along? Read and find out! Thanks for the reviews!_

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FOUR – Catherine and me

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If things had been different – and I daresay better – I would have never even met Catherine at all. When she married my brother after he became king, I had already left for Italy, and if it hadn't been for the troubles in their marriage, I might have never returned to English soil. But when she miscarried that last daughter in 1518, Harry sent me a letter filled with barely concealed despair and grief that sickened my heart. He had always been my favourite sibling since we were so close in age. Despite his vanity (which I actually found quite likeable at the time), I thought he made for a great king and wished only the best upon him. So when I read his letter, the urge to embrace and comfort him became unbearable.

The timing, however, was very unfortunate, as my family was currently wrapped in serious warfare over the Duchy of Urbino. In 1516, the Pope had created my husband Duke of Urbino, much to the dismay of a certain Francesco della Rovere, who had previously been the Duke. He then rallied Venetian troops and took Urbino back in 1517. Surprised and angry, the Pope ordered my husband to repay the favour and attack yet again. At times, it seemed like a game of nasty children to me, but when Lorenzo was wounded in battle, things became too serious for jokes. He would lie around in bed for months, his mood declining with every day he was forced to have others fight for him. During this time, he began to take more mistresses than usual, something which did by no means bother me. I accepted him as my husband and loved our children, the latest of which had just been born, but I did not care much about Lorenzo as a person.

The Pope's army eventually won, but only because della Rovere ran out of money and watched his soldiers desert the battlefield. It was a shaky peace and it meant that the Duchy was by no means safe. My family was once again on the brink of war when Harry's letter reached me. Of course I hesitated to give into my urge to travel to him, not only because of the unstable political situation, but also because Niccolò and I were in the middle of some very interesting discussions. But ultimately, my love for Harry won, and I asked my husband for permission to go to England with our children.

Much to my surprise, he refused. Normally, he never refused anything I asked of him, since he was too bothered with his daily business to care. I assumed then that he feared I would run off with our children since we had gone through some minor fights prior to the day that Harry's letter arrived. They were of no great importance to me, but Lorenzo obviously thought I was flimsy enough to desert him because of that. He refused, and in my despair, I turned to the only person I knew could help me: the Pope.

We were not exactly friends, but ever since my intervention on Giulio and Simonetta's behalf, he had somehow respected me, and I him. Fortunately, he happened to be in Florence at the time, so I brought my plight before him directly. It took me no longer than a few minutes to convince him that my brother, the king, would forever be grateful to the Medici family. He intervened on my behalf and had a lengthy conversation with Lorenzo, the outcome of which was that I would be allowed to travel to England for half a year in total and to take Eleonora and my baby Alessandro with me. Vittoria, however, would stay in Italy, obviously as a sort of safety to make sure I returned. I did not like it and, had I known what would happen later, I might not have agreed to it. But I did and that is how I met Catherine.

Looking back now, I would say our first meeting was rather unfortunate. She had had a stillborn daughter only months ago while I arrived with my two healthy children. But even if she did envy me, she had the nerve to conceal her feelings then and receive me politely. Harry, on the other hand, was more than just polite. He was giddy with pleasure to see me again after almost ten years and embraced me so tightly I could barely breathe. He issued a large feast to be held in my honour, much grander than the one my father had given me before my departure. And from the very first second on, he adored my children and showered them with gifts. Catherine saw all of this.

At first, we got along quite well, despite the fact that we were so different. She had been a stranger to this country once, but had been anglicised over the years, while I, a native of England, had spent the last nine years in Venice and Florence. I felt more of a stranger than her. She treated me with respect and even kindness, often inviting me to stitch with her and taking interest in my children. I did notice her gazes towards them, but did not think much of it at the time. I wasn't there to stay, anyway.

But then things got off hand. In Italy, the crisis worsened, and in England, I discovered I was pregnant again. I desperately wished to return to Italy to receive the comfort of Simonetta as I had had with all of my pregnancies, but Harry steadfastly refused to let me travel in my condition. Things back in Florence and Urbino were far too unstable for a heavily pregnant woman to arrive there, he told me in a soothing voice. It was charming to be shepherded like this, so I agreed to stay. Perhaps he was just unwilling to let me go, since I was his "only sister" at the time. Margaret had been in Scotland for forever, and Mary had still not been forgiven for marrying the Duke of Suffolk.

Soon, things in Italy became so tense that it was agreed I would have my child on English soil, and in April 1519, I gave birth to a daughter whom I decided to name Caterina. It was an attempt to appease Catherine, whom I felt had become increasingly jealous of me, and for a time it may have worked. Ultimately, however, it was doomed to fail, as was my relationship with Catherine, due to her lack of male offspring.

Do not mistake me: I do have compassion for Catherine's plight. Her days spent in shame after Arthur's death were pitiful, as was the loss of so many children, her youth, and Harry's love. It is viewed as cruel today to think of her as anything else but a wronged soul, yet I feel that this picture is twisted. Just as the people wish to see Niccolò as the devil, they wish to paint Catherine as a victim of Harry's lusts. But they didn't know Niccolò, and they didn't know Catherine. I knew her, and I know that despite her undisputable hardships, she was no saint. She was very proud and stubborn to the point of being like a rock. She refused to accept any other truth but hers. And she was a notorious idealist, which was possibly the worst of her crimes, and also the thing that would eventually break her neck.

I ought never to have been around in order to witness the events that would soon unfold, but fate had different plans. Shortly after I had given birth to Caterina, I received the news that my husband had died of the French disease or syphilis as they now call it. It came to me as a shock, for I had not even known he was infected. I might not have loved him, but I still pitied him, and moreover, worried for my Italian family. Della Rovere quickly took back the Duchy of Urbino, which the Pope obviously had lost interest in due to the fact that he now had to deal with the Turks. I quickly realised that without Lorenzo, I had nothing to return to, and that I would only live in danger from the della Roveres if I came back.

So circumstances forced me to remain in England, separated from my eldest daughter, and thus become witness to Harry's fading love for Catherine and the chaos that would follow. Once I had moved past the tears I shed for Vittoria, Simonetta, Niccolò, and others I would not see for a long time, I decided to be my father's daughter and make the best of it. I continued to be who I had been in Florence – an able player in the game of politics.

The storm that was building up inside the royal household did not remain hidden from me for long, nor did its obvious consequences. The hints were subtle, but visible. First, Harry allowed his old companion Suffolk back to court, accepting that a marriage made for love could be reasonable. Then he held a summit with the French during which his only daughter Mary was betrothed to the Dauphin. And there also was his latest and surprisingly long-lasting mistress, a certain Mary Boleyn. I knew my brother. I knew he had always been in love with the idea of love itself and that he could no longer picture Catherine in this ideal version of himself as the valiant knight.

I could not sit by idly and watch as their relationship dwindled into nothing but courtesy. I knew Harry would not stop there once he had realised that he no longer loved her. Once that happened, there was no stopping him, and I feared what it would do to him, to Catherine, to their daughter, and to England. That is the reason I decided to confront Catherine about the matter in 1524. Today I know I committed the sin of idealism myself when I believed words could change anything, but I the time I was certain my silver tongue could work it out.

I tried to address the matter subtly, casually mentioning my brother's renewed interest in reading the bible during one of these stitching afternoons with her. Catherine couldn't be provoked into a reaction.

"I hear he is thoroughly reading Leviticus as of lately," I added in a more suggestive tone.

"My husband is a very learned man," she replied sternly.

I sighed, realising I was going nowhere with subtle kindness, so I asked her if we could speak in private. Frowning, Catherine accepted and sent away her maids to the adjacent room. She looked at me with no expression at all.

"Majesty, if I may be so bold, I could not help but notice that things between you and my brother are not as they once were."

She took a moment to reply, but when she spoke, her voice was stern and unshaking. "My husband," she emphasized, "still loves me and our daughter very much. He is simply toying around with Lady Boleyn. You need not be concerned."

"Forgive me, but I have known my brother for a long time, and I fear that his infatuation with his mistress may be more than temporary. She is changing him, as did the birth of Henry Fitzroy. You know his vanity, you know how he is hurting over his lack of a legitimate son and heir."

"His Majesty loves our daughter very much," Catherine steadfastly insisted. "He would never place any of his bastards above her."

"Are you sure of that? You know he can be fickle at times."

"My husband is a good man and a good king. He knows that, if God shall not grant us a son, Mary will make for a wonderful Queen. She is the pearl of his world. He would not neglect her for some harlot's son."

"I wasn't implying that. My fears go much deeper, Madam. His affections for you are obviously fading – I would even assume that he is questioning whether you are truly his wife."

Now, at last, Catherine lost her temper. "How dare you speak to me like that? I am your Queen! I will not suffer your insolence!"

I, too, had no mind of being spoken to like that. "Forgive me, but what will you do if I continued? How will you castigate me? What would you do? Nothing, that is what would happen, for there is nothing you can do. All your power is in fact Harry's, and I highly doubt he would take any actions against me simply because you felt inappropriately addressed when I was merely speaking the truth. And that is the truth: We are women, Madam, and we are only as powerful as the men we control. And you no longer wield power over my brother."

Catherine was too stunned to say anything, or too angry, but either way she remained silent. I, on the other hand, was disgusted by her stubbornness, especially since I truly feared for the fate of her little daughter. I considered her behaviour as ungratefulness, a trait of character I always despised, and for that reason I rose from my chair.

"Where are you going? We are not finished!" She said angrily.

"We are," I returned. "You do not seem to care for what I have to say, or for the warning I wanted to give you, and you will have to face the consequences of your doings. But I will not sit by and watch as your trouble with Harry ruins everything my father has built. Madam." I curtseyed and left.

Harry came to me the next day telling me that Catherine had complained about my rude behaviour, but he didn't seem very sympathetic. It was a clear sign for me that his love for her had vanished and that I had been right all along. But still, the idea of staying in a court presided over by a woman who would rather go down with her ship and tear down others instead of being reasonable was unbearable for me. Likewise, the Italian situation had become stable once more when, after the death of Leo and his successor, Giulio de' Medici had been elected pope. He had already expressed his wish to have me and my children back in Florence and now I was ready to concede.

Harry didn't want to let me go, of course, but when I told him about my daughter Vittoria and how much I missed her, he reluctantly agreed. A parent's love for their children was one thing he always understood. I knew he loved his daughter, Mary, too, but as I had told Catherine, I also knew it would not stop him from disinheriting her if he had hopes for a legitimate son.

When I left England, Catherine was not present to bid me farewell, even though Harry had taken it to himself to escort me to Dover once again. I did not miss her presence, though. Unlike when I had last seen my father, this time I had an inkling that I would not get to see her again. Of course I could have never anticipated the strange events that would soon enfold, but I knew that something was going to happen, and that it wouldn't be pleasant for her. Time would ultimately prove me right.


	5. Giulio

_AN: Thanks for the reviews! Back to Italy we go, but only to find that Elizabeth will get entangled in events that have great impact on England and her brother's marriage..._

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FIVE - Giulio and me

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It may seem weird to the innocent bystander that I had mentionable relationships with no less than two popes and continued to address them by their Christian names in private, but that's how it was. With Giovanni, or Leo X, I admittedly spoke less, but what Giulio and I had can safely be called a friendship. He had always been grateful for my intervention on Simonetta's behalf and my subsequent good treatment of his son Alfonso, and when I returned to Italy in 1524, he welcomed me back with open arms. He made sure I received grand apartments in the Medici palazzo in Florence. Funny enough, they had once belonged to Alfonsina, my mother-in-law, who had died a few years ago. Now, what had been hers became mine – including Simonetta, whom I made my principal maidservant.

Coming back home was a wonderful feeling. I embraced Simonetta tightly, who had tears in her eyes when she told me how dire and boring her years since Alfonsina's death had been. Her only joy, of course, had been Alfonso, whom she had finally been allowed to care for fully. And how much he had grown! He was a smart boy of fourteen now, tall and slender, and even though he had not inherited his father's handsomeness, I knew he was going somewhere. Unfortunately, seeing my little Vittoria again was not as joyful, for she reacted coolly and quite distantly towards me and her younger siblings. I could not begrudge her – she had been seven when I left for England and was now twelve. She barely knew me anymore. But I shall speak about her later.

What I wanted to tell you about was my connection to Giulio, or Clement VII, and how it affected not only my life, but the course of European politics. As mentioned before, he received me with open arms and an invitation to the Vatican. At first, his overwhelming kindness confused me, but it soon became evident that there was more to it. He was, in fact, not so much interested in me as a person (and thankfully even less in me as a woman), but in my affiliation with the King of England. Harry, he hoped, could be a valuable ally, who could help him keep the balance in the power struggle between France and Spain.

"Of course we know the King would be careful not to antagonise either of them," Giulio said when we first visited the topic.

Having always enjoyed the liberty to speak my mind with the Medici, I decided to reply: "You are quite mistaken, then. My brother is a good and just king, but he is by no means a careful man, or a hesitant one. One day, he is friends with Francis; the next, he calls off his daughter's betrothal to the Dauphin and promises her to the Emperor instead. It's near impossible to anticipate what he might do next."

"But his real loyalties – where do they lie?"

"The King feels most obliged to his own matters – above anything else. He holds no great love for either Francis or Charles," I explained. When I saw the frowning look on Giulio's face, however, I quickly added: "But he is loyal to Your Holiness in every way. My brother is a very pious man. And if you make sure never to interfere with his matters; or if you even do something that pleases him, you will find in him a faithful and diligent supporter."

Now, Giulio smiled. "We knew it was wise to ask your counsel on these matters. Tell us, then, how we could make him beholden to us?"

After a moment of thought, I replied: "Well, he did love it when the Pope bestowed the title of Defensor Fidei on him."

Giulio seemed to like that answer. But today, I wonder what would have happened if I had told him there and then that Harry wanted an annulment. Perhaps things would have been better in England. Yet I hesitated, unwilling to act behind Harry's back or to harm Catherine. Protecting her from the inevitable was foolish, I know, but despite our fight I pitied her somehow. Maybe that was my mistake then, but I would eventually try to mend things.

Over the next years, Giulio continued to invite me to Rome for lengthy periods of time. You might assume it was only a pretext for seeing Simonetta, but their love had long ago faded, although he still treated her amiably. No, he was actually growing found of our conversations and the "freshness" of my thoughts, as he once confessed to me. I enjoyed them, too, but what I liked even better was my position at the heart of Italian politics. Giulio was the ruler of the Papal States and one of the major players in this game, and more often than not, he let me in on his thoughts and plans. In some ways, our relationship resembled that which had connected Niccolò and me once, but only this time, we were not speaking about theoretical matters. This was real.

And our plans were by no means limited to the borders of the Vatican. Giulio was harbouring the idea of ending the Republic of Florence, the failed experiment, as he called it. In its stead, he was for a hereditary Duchy of Florence. The idea seemed plausible to me, but who would be duke then, I asked? And even though he was the Pope, Giulio looked at me like a sorry schoolboy then.

"It ought to have been your husband's privilege, but since he is with God and his angels, the right passes to his children," Giulio started, but failed to continue.

I understood him nonetheless. "And you would like to see it pass to Alfonso," I said matter-of-factly.

He looked at me with an unspoken excuse in his face. I quickly pondered my options before shaking my head.

"Do not apologise, for I understand. Alfonso is almost old enough to be a man and carry responsibility while Alessandro is still but a boy. One must not neglect such facts in times like these. Where Alessandro would drown, Alfonso could swim."

"Then you have no objections?" Giulio asked hopefully.

"Not if you in turn make a promise," I replied, waiting for his nod before continuing. "That you will not desert me or my children, now or ever, and that you will protect our interests and see to it that my children are always taken care of as befits their station. They are Medici just like Alfonso and you. I am a Medici. We have a right to be here, to be part of Florence and Italy. I want that recognised even though Lorenzo is dead."

Giulio was more than happy to accept this offer. He did not consider my children a threat, not now that he knew I supported Alfonso if he were to become Duke of Florence. He swore to always protect us, an oath that would always make me feel safe in the future.

Why did I trade my little Alessandro's claim as Lorenzo's legitimate son for such securities? Because security is worth more than a crown and a favour owed by a powerful man can be much more valuable than a hundred soldiers. As I had once told Catherine, women in our time could only be as powerful as the men they controlled. Given the fact that the Pope himself was my protector now, I had become one of the most powerful women in Europe in an instant.

That, at least, is how Niccolò put it in one of his letters. Though we no longer met as often as we used to, we kept up a regular correspondence. In 1526, I even managed for him to get a private audience with His Holiness in order to present his latest work, the Florentine Histories, an honour only few artists and authors received. He also brought a new stage play with him which premiered in Rome to great acclaim and praise. I enjoyed it in one of the private boxes that belonged exclusively to the Pope, sharing the company of the writer. Looking back now, this was a pristine moment for my love of arts, but also a moment of immense power. This was the central of cultural life in Europe and I was at the heart of it. Things could have continued like this forever.

Unfortunately, they didn't. The conflict between the League of Cognac (including the Papal States and France) and Charles V reached a boiling point in 1527 which culminated in open and full-scale war. Canons were fired, men lay in their blood, and worst of all, our enemies managed to reclaim Florence from the Medici. My children and I were barely able to escape with our lives, but our home was pillaged and all we held dear thrown in the streets like trash. I was profoundly shocked by the rapid action and cruelty. Fortuna, however, would not grant me much time to think about these events. Only days after we had fled to the safety of the Vatican, Spanish troops arrived in Rome. What happened next I still lack the words to describe. The holy city was sacked.

To me, the soldiers were like the vandals who had sacked Rome some thousand years before. They preyed on the city like wasps, swarming through the streets and taking everything they could find. They slaughtered Romans who happened to cross their way or sometimes raped them first, and then set fire to their houses. My life was literally going up in flames that day. At first, I was paralysed by fear, and it was Simonetta's down-to-earth attitude that saved my life. She was the one who came to pick me and the children up and join her former lover, the Pope, into the safety of Castel Sant'Angelo. We were safe – but prisoners in our own castle.

These were devastating days for me. I felt like I was losing grip, like all my wits had been worth nothing. I had not prevented this disaster. Giulio, too, was at loss for words or wisdom. Neither of us had imagined this to be possible. These men were Spanish soldiers, after all! Wasn't their monarch the Holy Roman Emperor, the grandson of Their Most Catholic Majesties, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella? It was beyond our reach to understand how he could have allowed this sack to proceed.

We sat in the Castel for weeks like mice in a trap, only receiving news from the outside through our carefully woven network of spies and servants knowing how to smuggle a message in their clothes. Two of them were of the utmost importance to me and neither was pleasant. The first came in June and was written in Niccolò's shaky hand. The Medici had lost Florence once again, the Republic had been restored – but he, the hero of the Republic, had been denied a place in the new government due to his "implications with the Medici". Plainly speaking, his friendship with me had barred him from the one thing he had always hoped to return to.

But he urged me not to feel sorry for him, since our friendship had been the light of his life for more than a decade now. He would not have traded it for anything, he said. These words warmed my heart, for he spoke with such kindness about our friendship and my talents that I still remember every word today. Somehow, it seems appropriate that this would be the last I heard of him. Only days after he sent this letter, Niccolò died of digestive pains. It took me four weeks to hear about it in my Roman prison, but once I knew, I wept so bitterly that Giulio had to pick me up from the floor and rock me for hours. A great man had left this world and (which was even worse) my life. I felt so numb and alone.

But I have promised to tell you about two messages and the second one was from Harry. He told me he had heard of the attack and the Pope's flight and that he prayed every night I was well, too. But he also made no secret of his despair about the situation, since he had wanted to contact Giulio about an important matter that was eating up his soul: the unlawfulness of his marriage to Catherine. She had been his brother's wife, he told me, and the dispensation had been wrong. Surely, Giulio could have found a way to help him, but now that he was de facto prisoner of no other than Catherine's beloved nephew, Harry saw his only chance for freedom disappear into smoke. That he wanted nothing more badly, however, was obvious, since he also mentioned a certain "Lady Anne" with whom he was very much in love and who would surely be able to succeed where Catherine had failed and give him a son.

Harry was right; his prospects of getting an annulment were rather bleak now. Looking at Giulio I knew that I could ask him for anything without fearing he would object, but this was something which he could no longer give me, or Harry. We were all trapped indeed. And just when I thought things couldn't be worse, God in his wisdom gave me a silver lining of hope and a dreadful fear at the same time: Emperor Charles was on his way to Rome.


	6. Carlos

_AN: Thank you for the reviews, especially to my unnamed visitor – you will find some of your ideas in the upcoming chapters, so stay tuned!_

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SIX – Carlos and me

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Emperor Charles, no, Carlos, was one of those people you had heard so much about that you could picture him in a thousand different ways, but when you met him, he was completely different still. So when I figured that I would get to meet him in person, I tried to think nothing, to keep my mind free from any prejudice and thoughts, but I failed to do so. In truth, the prospect of meeting the Emperor in Castel St. Angelo terrified me. He had my life in his hands, and also that of my children, Simonetta, and Giulio. The Pope, too, was afraid of what Carlos could and would do, though neither of us dared to utter this fear. Instead, we pondered the question of what to do.

Giulio reasoned that Carlos, being so young and powerful, would be a formidable enemy for us, especially since we had nothing with which to bribe him. What could anyone offer to him that he didn't already have? He didn't need money or titles or political advantages – he had all of that. Giulio and I had nothing but our own wits. We were almost powerless in our state as prisoners. With every day that the Emperor was drawing nearer, our despair grew. We saw no way out.

Oddly, it was my little daughter Eleonora who saved us. Giulio should grow a beard, she insisted. She reminded us that despite the sack of Rome, Carlos was known as a very pious man, and that if Giulio humbled himself to appear like the miserable prisoner he was, Carlos's conscience would strike and free us all. She said that Pope Alexander, the Borgia Pope, had done the same when the French had threatened to remove him from power. She had read it in a book. I wasn't convinced, but Giulio accepted my daughter's words as our only chance and stuck to it. Today, I'm very glad he trusted in her, and I scold myself for ever doubting her. The idea was brilliant.

When I first saw Carlos after he left his audience with Giulio, I saw a face full of worries. As usual, my curiosity got the better of me, and I turned towards him to catch another glimpse of the most powerful man in the world. He was young, 8 years my minor, but by no means handsome. His large, protruding chin and gawky limps made him seem nothing like the man I had expected. But there was something sympathetic in his eyes that I knew I could like.

"He seems so… sad," Charlos whispered in Latin, and upon realising my presence, he added in the same low voice: "Forgive me, my Lady, I spoke without knowing I would be heard."

Surprised by his respectful address, I curtseyed before him. "There is no need to apologise, Your Majesty."

"May I inquire your name?"

"I am Elisabetta de' Medici, a cousin to His Holiness."

"King Henry's sister?" Carlos raised his eyebrows. "Forgive me, but I had not expected to find you here. I had assumed you fled to England."

There was little chance for that, your troops were too fast, I thought, but I knew better than to say so. "No, Your Majesty. My rightful place is with the family of my children, the Medici, and thus with His Holiness. He is in dire need of support these days. We all are. Family must stick together."

I had heard rumours about the fact that Carlos was very much a family man and shamelessly hoped to exploit that with my words. He nodded, which I took as a good sign and continued.

"You seem worried, if I may say so," I said in order to test whether Giulio's pathos had worked, and Carlos's face told me it had. He felt seen through, that much was clear, but I didn't want him to know I had manipulated him, so I added: "About your wife, I guess?"

"Yes," he replied almost relieved, "she is heavy with child and due to give birth any day."

"Then Your Majesty must be hoping and praying for a healthy son and for the safe delivery of your wife. I am sure you must miss her much."

Carlos nodded absent-mindedly. "You surely miss your husband as well."

"He is dead," I said matter-of-factly.

"Oh… I apologise, Lady Elisabetta, I had forgotten. I did not mean to inconvenience you."

I smiled gallantly. "You didn't. I have been a widow for eight years now and know how to live with the pain. It is true, I am lonely sometimes, but my children more than make up for that. They are my every joy."

Carlos, too, smiled now. "How many do you have?"

"Four, Your Majesty."

"Four," he nodded. There was something awkward in his gaze. "You are truly blessed, then. I… I should like to meet them, tomorrow, for supper. Do you assume this would be possible?"

"If Your Majesty wishes." I curtseyed, and while I knelt before him, a thought crossed my mind. Could it be that he was _interested_ in me? Could his loneliness make him susceptible to romantic thoughts? It was a wild guess, but in this situation, it seemed my best hope for freedom and survival. I decided to play the cards I had been dealt and foster any kind of interest Carlos may have in me. I would bet everything I had, and even though I was never the prettiest Tudor girl – Mary was – I was no unpleasant sight and good with words. That, I knew, was sometimes worth more when trying to seduce a man. They always deny loving sharp tongues and witty minds, but secretly, they do. They love the challenge and they love the chase.

So did Carlos. I can't say what it was that he liked about me, but it was plain to see that he favoured me and my children. Even Giulio realised it and saw his chance for freedom. He heartened me to strengthen my relationship to the Emperor even though he acknowledged how immoral it was – "but this is war, and war has its own rules," he told me. In a way, he was right. It was Niccolò's thoughts put into practice: do whatever you must to preserve what you hold dear and accept that the end justifies the means.

So I encouraged Carlos's friendly attitude and allowed him to spend more time with me and my children. Whatever was going on inside his head I will never know, but it seemed to work in our favour. After only two weeks, Carlos agreed to allow Giulio to escape to Orvieto if I and my children stayed behind as hostages. Well-treated hostages, he added, and we all knew what he meant. Giulio agreed and fled, while I remained in Rome and moved to the palazzo Carlos inhabited during his stay.

I still wonder whether he actually meant to bed me as a real mistress, or if he only wished to admire me like a poet does his muse. Either way, he never urged me to know him carnally, although he sought my presence at all times. He seemed very worried about me and my well-being, even more than about his wife at home who had survived the birth. It was curious to me that a man could care for anything else but his sons, but Carlos obviously did. He cared for me. And very quickly, he found out how to read my face, which thankfully had nothing to hide anymore, for I mostly enjoyed his company. Now, he could almost see through me as I through him.

"What troubles you so, Prinzessin?" For some obscure reasons, he had come to refer to me by my old title, but in German. It was a joke between the two of us.

"It's my brother. He has written another letter and… no, you wouldn't understand."

"Test me. No, I mean it. What is there in the world that I could not understand?"

I sighed. "He… he no longer loves your aunt and she has failed to give him a son. Now he worries about his succession, for he only has Mary, and we all remember Empress Matilda and her civil war for the crown. That's not what my father fought for. Harry is desperate."

Carlos's sunny face had turned sour. "The English matter again."

"Harry cannot help the facts, either. It's a deplorable situation, but he needs a son. England needs a prince."

"So he wants to rid himself of my aunt? How?" Carlos asked, proving to me that he wasn't half as dumb as I had first thought. He saw troubles and their consequences quite clearly.

I hesitated to answer. "Since Catherine has refused to take the veil, the only option is annulment."

He shook his head. "No. Her marriage cannot be declared invalid! Don't you see what it would do to her, to the Princess, to our family? It would shame them in front of everyone! My aunt is no whore and my cousin not a bastard!"

"Do you think I like to entertain that idea? I care deeply for my little niece and I have begged Catherine to accept Harry's terms, but she refused me. She would rather live in the shambles of her marriage than… oh, Carlos."

I don't remember whether I was really desperate or if I was just playing along, but he obviously thought I was saddened and embraced me gently.

"Do not fret, Prinzessin. There must be a solution."

"I know. Harry wanted to ask His Holiness, but since Clement's still somehow your prisoner, he cannot act against you, and therefore against Catherine. But Harry is getting older, too, and he has little hopes now for a son." I deliberately hid the fact that Harry had also told me about his deep affections for a certain Lady Anne. "But you must also see how troubled our country was in the centuries past, and how dark the ages of civil war were. If my brother were to have but a daughter as his heir, England would plunge into the dark despair of warfare again. All my father's efforts would be null and void!"

"And still, I won't allow him to harm Catherine. She is my family. Surely you will understand?"

I nodded quietly. "Yes, Your Majesty, but something has to happen and I fear it will happen soon. Harry does not have your patience. He might overreact. And then… I fear for Mary."

"My poor worried Prinzessin… Would it please you if I put an end to this mess?" His voice was genuinely sweet.

"Only if you knew a way for everyone to come out as unscathed as possible. My brother may seem unkind to an outsider, but I know him well and I know that it is only despair and fear for our country that drives him to extreme measures. He does not wish harm upon Catherine, he is just disappointed and desperate. He is no unkind man. I do not wish to see him hurt, or my niece. Do you know such a way?" I asked hopefully. This time, it wasn't acting.

"If it pleases you so then I shall find a way. I could not bear to see you remain in your wretched, sorrowful state."

I smiled and told him how much I appreciated his kindness and generosity, none of which was truly a lie. I was grateful for his promise, but I had also overemphasized some things to influence him in my interest. Was that wrong? Are there times when I feel guilty for playing him like that? Sometimes, perhaps, but I always accepted that the ends were more important than the means. And besides, Carlos got all he wanted that year, so why bother feeling guilty? His wife bore him a son, he cleared his bad conscience by allowing Giulio to escape, he enjoyed many hours of conversing with me, and in the end, he also found a solution to my brother's Great Matter.

In November 1527, a papal letter left Orvieto stating that the marriage of Catherine and Harry was annulled. She was to receive a large sum of money, a title, and a pension. Mary would be considered a bastard, but since everyone agreed the marriage had been made in good faith, she would still be called Princess and remain in the line of succession right behind any legitimate children of future marriages. I knew Catherine would not like it, but it was the best solution. I don't know what would have happened to her if I had not intervened, but I was positive that any of the alternatives would have been worse. She might never see it that way, but I knew what I had done, and why.

Harry knew, too, and he showered me with gleeful words and invited me to England to witness his wedding in early 1528. If I had wondered for a second why he wasn't leaving more time between the annulment and his new wedding, the news that his chosen bride was secretly with child made that all too clear. I must admit that I was only mildly curious to meet the woman who had captured my brother's heart – others had done so before – but I was anxious to make sure my niece was well taken care of. So I set sail for England again in 1528 to meet a woman whose life would soon become inseparably entwined with mine: Anne.


	7. Anne

_AN: Hello and thanks for the reviews! I especially enjoyed the long one and want to answer two questions - first, I know about the story of Melusine, but I will not include it in this story because it doesn't fit Elizabeth's rational mind (forged by Macchiavelli) to have supernatural powers. This story is about the grim reality, so a fantastic element wouldn't fit. Still I like your suggestions! Second, I am not strongly rooting for one of Henry's queens, but her dramatic fate and unique wits always made me like Anne Boleyn. That, of course, doesn't mean that Elizabeth Tudor thinks the same way... but hey, you're going to read about that in a second, so what am I telling you? Just listen to what Elizabeth herself has to say about Anne!_

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SEVEN – Anne and me

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I am certain you are curious to hear my opinion about Anne Boleyn, who was one of the most infamous queens of England and the woman my beloved brother was willing to do so much for. By now, it should be plain to you that I, unlike most, was no great admirer of Catherine of Aragon, but was I a friend of Anne's, then? No. Even though our lives became entangled as soon as we met, Anne and I have never been friends. We were allies at times and enemies at others, but never friends. Although I acknowledge her wits and courage, there were too many things separating us.

First, there was an age gap of almost 9 years between us. When I first met Anne in 1528, she was in her twenties, flirty and feisty, while I was nearing my fortieth birthday and had just suffered almost a year of imprisonment. Yes, it had been a comfortable imprisonment after Carlos began courting me, I admit it, but it had been vastly different from Anne's life. Harry showered her with gifts, especially after his marriage had officially been annulled and her pregnancy had begun to show. Perhaps I was also jealous at the time just like Catherine had been envious about my rounded belly – although I was happy having four living children, it hurt to realise that my child-bearing years were coming to an end. To be frank: When I first met Anne, she made me feel utterly old.

She was a very proud woman, Anne Boleyn, everyone can tell you that. But unlike others, I have to admit that Anne did have reasons to be proud. She had received an impressive education and knew how to handle men, both of which set her apart from most women at court. And she did what Catherine couldn't: She gave my brother his longed-for son. I don't remember how I felt about Edward's birth. Was I happy for Harry? Was I satisfied that my intervention against his marriage to Catherine had proved fruitful? Was I envious at the praise Anne now received? Or was I simply indifferent? I don't remember, but I assume it was the latter. At the time, there were many things on my mind, but not Anne's son.

I had come to England to attend the wedding and the birth, but had to leave all my children behind. The situation in Italy, however, was far from stable, and so I lived in constant fear for their lives', Alessandro's especially. He was his father's only son, one of few Medici men left, and still only a boy of ten. And I pitied him. As I witnessed Harry doting on his son and wife, I wished Alessandro had experienced the same. His father had been proud at his birth, granted, but he had died only two years later. What Edward would enjoy, Alessandro had never had. And I never had a husband like Harry.

Being in England made me sad. I missed my children more and envied Harry's blissful marital life with every passing day. Strangely, it was my sister-in-law who seemed to take notice. I do not think she appeased me out of kindness – that would not suit her character. No, I think she offered me comfort because she knew how much power I wielded about Harry's heart. Perhaps she even knew she had better not make me her enemy. I lacked her furious temper, but I could be cold as ice if someone was deserving of revenge. It wasn't a secret and Anne was clever. She offered to spend time with me after her churching.

That was when I realised that times had changed. Once, I had been the young and smart lady and Catherine of Aragon had been the envious old woman. Now, I had adopted that role. As this dawned upon me, a shock ran through my veins. If there was something I did never want to be it was a lamenting idealist like Catherine! So I refused Anne's offer. She, of course, was rebuffed and retreated from me. Looking back, perhaps that was what created a real rift between us, but neither of us saw the need to close that gap at the time. We were both sure that Harry cared for us. We were not like Catherine.

Yes, Anne was not like Catherine, which was plain to see for everyone. But despite the rightfulness of her marriage, many people in England still refused to accept her as queen, especially in the North. They secretly accused her of heresy and witchcraft. Anne, in turn, had a talent for making enemies. One year after her wedding, Anne had already achieved to have a formidable front of opponents form against her. And I sat by and watched.

To be honest, I had not anticipated what would happen to her. At the time, I knew her enemies could prove troublesome when the time came, and I quietly disregarded her for disobeying Niccolò's rules like keeping a low profile. But at least it seemed to me that she had understood the most important rule of all: If you want to be a powerful woman, control a powerful man. Anne controlled Harry perfectly. She had lulled him completely with her dark looks, quick tongue, and of course the birth of Edward. And one year later, she was heavily pregnant again and gave birth to a daughter. Even though it was 'just' a girl, Harry was utterly besotted with her. Anne was at the height of her power and she knew it.

She was powerful enough to show me that she, not I, ruled over Harry now. She did that by naming her daughter for me – Elizabeth. It seemed like a kind gesture, but do not be fooled. It was Anne's way of telling me that I was no longer needed, that I was a burden to her court. There was a new Princess Elizabeth Tudor for England now. Elisabetta de' Medici could return to Italy.

I did her the favour, packed my belongings, and set sail for Europe again, not only because I felt superfluous in England. Giulio had written to me with the most urgent words telling me about my daughter Vittoria's misbehaviour. He hoped that I could bring her to her senses and I could and would not disobey his wishes. Anne smiled at me generously when I asked my leave from Harry's court. At the time, she probably thought I was really doing her a favour by leaving, since she was now without competition for Harry's affections. At least, that's what I thought. We would both be proven wrong.

After my troubles with Vittoria and a short but intense time in France (both of which I will tell you about later), I returned to England in 1533. Why, you might wonder. Why did I return to a country which held nothing for me?

I came back because it occurred to me that whenever I left, things turned worse for the Tudor family. Harry's marriage had produced two living children, Edward and Elizabeth, but also two miscarriages. Anne seemed to have lost her luck. My friends at court reported that they were fighting more frequently, shouting and yelling and slamming doors. This was nothing special for Harry, of course, but very special in a royal consort. Queens were supposed to be sweet and demure, not yelling and demanding. I understood why Anne would react this way, but I also knew it would get her into more trouble than she expected.

I came back to save Anne and her marriage to Harry. But when I returned, my head filled to the brim with other problems that you will soon hear about, I found that I had come too late. The shining love in Harry's eyes had faded. He was growing annoyed of Anne as he had of Catherine and it troubled me to see it. I knew what he could have done to Catherine's daughter, my sweet niece Mary, and I feared what the marital trouble could do to Edward and Elizabeth.

Do not be mistaken: I love my brother. I always have. But I never closed my eyes from what he was capable of. Edward and Elizabeth, unlike Mary, had no powerful royal family on their mother's side, and could easily suffer from Harry's wrath. If he wanted to rid himself of Anne – which I was sure he would do if her latest pregnancy didn't turn out well – he could not declare their marriage invalid as he did with Catherine. Well, he could, but it would cost him his son and heir. So if he wanted Anne out of his life, he would have to resort to other means. Drastic means. I shivered knowing what could happen.

Subconsciously, Anne too seemed to know what awaited her. She was no longer the feisty lady I had once met; she was pale and thin and somehow bloodless. The fights and the fear of losing Harry's love had taken their toll on her. Suddenly, she was no longer any confident. I, on the other hand, suddenly felt remorse over my distant behaviour towards her, and felt compelled to help. But what could I do? To save Catherine, I had had to charm one of the most powerful men in the world. And saving Anne could prove even more difficult. What could I do?

While I was still pondering the matter, God chose to accelerate things and force me into action. In late 1533, Anne gave birth to a stillborn son, almost dying in the process. I was with Harry while we waited and saw the anger and disappointment in his eyes. I knew Anne had been given a last chance – and failed. Then things came tumbling down on me. First, my spies informed me that the King was secretly seeing one of his wife's ladies, who was "the soft gentle breeze to Anne's raging storm", as my spy put it. Then Harry began to make excuses to send his children further away from court – probably to keep them from Anne. And then, after a few drinks, Charles Brandon confessed to me that Harry was investigating whether Anne had betrayed him with other men.

You need not be a student of Niccoló's to understand what accusations of unfaithfulness meant in a queen. Whoever planted these doubts in Harry's head wanted Anne dead, simple and plain. She had made many enemies who saw their chance to destroy her now, even at the cost of robbing two little children of their mother. I could not stand for that.

"How can you believe any of these slanders?" I blurted out once the groom had admitted me to Harry's chamber.

My brother looked at me puzzled. "What do you speak about and why do you speak in such a manner?"

"The accusations against your wife – how can you even investigate them? They are absurd!"

"Who told you about that?" Harry frowned. "Elizabeth… this is very serious. You must understand that I cannot let it pass unnoticed."

"But you love her. You've written me letter after letter praising her beauty and wits and professing your love for her. And suddenly someone slanders her name and you're willing to send her to the block?"

Harry's face distorted with pain. He turned away, visibly touched, but when he turned around, anger and despair had mixed into his eyes. "Rumour has it that she has been cuckolding me with more than a hundred men! Can you believe it? A hundred fucking men…"

"That is not true. Harry, that is not true! I need not even give you arguments for why this is not true. Whoever told you about it is mistaken," I told him harshly, but then his painful face touched my heart and forced me to embrace him. "Please do not believe it. Think of what it would do to your children. Don't believe it."

"It hurts so much, Elizabeth. I have loved her so. How could she ever do this to me?"

I hushed and comforted him tightly, secretly hoping no one would see us in such a firm embrace. His tears and sadness were a sign that not all hope was lost, that he still felt something for Anne, but I could also sense that he was not willing to continue the marriage. Even if he trusted my words and dropped the charges, Anne's days were numbered. I had to act quickly.

"Madam, allow me to put a matter before you," I began a conversation that felt like a very odd déjà-vu. I would tell Anne almost exactly what I had told Catherine, only this time I thought I was wiser and in a better position to be convincing.

Anne nodded. Her once so shining eyes were now hollows of darkness. "Of course, Your Highness."

"Thank you. Please allow me to be plain… I shall now speak to you in a manner that reminds me of what I told Catherine of Aragon about ten years ago. Only I hope that you are smarter than your predecessor and can see the sense and kindness in my words."

"Speak your mind, if you must," Anne returned.

"Your marriage to the King is crumbling away. He no longer loves you as he once did, just as it was with Catherine. Perhaps he is not capable of loving anyone for long… who knows. But I know that you must find a way out of your marriage or else he will, the result of which would not be favourable for you or your children."

I vividly remembered Catherine's stern response, telling me that Harry loved her and her daughter no matter what, so I was surprised that after a while, Anne replied: "I know."

"I was confident that you would be sensible. So, for the love of God, you must out of this marriage. If I may be so bold, I would suggest that you offer the King a divorce citing your inability to give him more children. I would see to it that the Pope gave his blessing for the affair and that all would be legal. Harry would surely give you lands and titles, perhaps even more than he gave Catherine, and your children would remain legitimate heirs to the crown."

"But I would be Queen no longer," Anne added bitterly. "I would be abandoned. I would have lost. Just like her."

Her words were dripping with hurt pride, a feeling that I could understand all too well. We Tudors were a proud lot, so in a way, Anne had fitted in nicely. I understood how much I was asking of her, but I also saw what the alternative would be. Maybe, I figured, Anne had to see it, too.

"There are rumours at court, Madam, rumours that you have been unfaithful to the King."

"No!" Anne yelped in shock. "Never."

"You need not tell me, I know you would never be so careless, even if you no longer loved my brother. But others spread these rumours to bring you down and Harry almost believed them. Trust me, it took me some effort to convince him otherwise, but plots like these will be hatching like ducklings. It won't be long before one of them succeeds and I am sure I need not point out the consequences to you."

Biting her cracked lip, Anne nodded. She was certainly more pragmatic than Catherine. And better at slander and dissention, obviously, for after a moment she asked: "Why would you do that for me?"

"I am not," I replied, but after realising my voice had sounded very harsh, I continued: "I am doing it for my niece and nephew. Some vile creatures would stop at nothing to bring you down, even if that meant Edward and Elizabeth would lose their mother. They have my blood and my love, and as a mother I cannot bear the thought of it."

"Yes, my children…"

"Think of them when you consider my words, Majesty," I urged her. "Think of what could happen to them. Ask yourself what you love most in this world and what you must do to protect it. Nothing else matters at the end of the day."

I left her alone then, returning to my chambers and going on my knees to pray. And I prayed, prayed as fervently as I have rarely ever prayed, begging God to make Anne see sense and save herself. If she went down, she would take her children with her, and not only that: England would lose one of the few interesting women it had to offer. I might not have been Anne's friend, but I acknowledged her talents. And I admired her strength, for she truly swallowed her pride to save her life and her children's happiness and followed my suggestion.

In 1534, the Pope agreed to Harry's divorce from Anne. She was created Marquess of Pembroke in her own right and received many riches, but lost the world of court that she had been so devoted to. Yet, ultimately, she kept her life and her children, and I think that she later realised she had made the right choice. Looking back, she got away quite nicely compared to others who had fallen for Harry. For her, the choice was good. For England, it was bad, even though most people at the time considered her departure a welcome change. As always, I thought I knew better. I thought that Harry's new wife was not the angel-like creature everyone liked to portray her as. Jane… but that is a matter for another time because first, I shall have to tell you about my daughter's plight back in Italy, and the most dangerous love affair I have ever had.


	8. Vittoria

_AN: Thanks for the reviews! I'd appreciate more suggestions! And I also hope you will enjoy this chapter although it has little to do with England and Henry VIII. I apologise for the fact that it's rather short and the fact that you will probably have to wait until the next weekend for the new update... busy week ahead! But as a little tease: Chapter 9 will deal with Elizabeth finally having a lover again after so many years of widowhood... and not just anyone. Stay tuned!_

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EIGHT – Vittoria and me

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As you might remember, the birth of my eldest daughter Vittoria was one of the happiest days of my life. It had been proof of my fertility, which was crucial to my position in the Medici family, and a personal victory for my marriage. When I had finally managed to bring my girl into this world after hours of arduous labour, I felt nothing but pure joy. Sadly, though, this would be the happiest moment Vittoria and I would ever share.

I can't determine the exact moment when we broke apart – perhaps it was more of a process – but one cannot deny the fact that of all my children, Vittoria and I had the worst relationship. In the beginning, of course, everything was good. She was a sweet baby and as my first child, everything about her was new and interesting. But even then, things were not working in our favour. When I became with child again (the one I so tragically lost), my mother-in-law began to take care of my daughter. Even though Alfonsina had once been disappointed with my daughter's sex, the prospect of a soon arriving grandson and the fact that Vittoria resembled her more and more each day had perfectly soothed her.

So Vittoria was always closer to her grandmother and her father. Somehow, that fitted her well, since she was a Medici through and through. Her eyes, the dark hair, and especially her nose left no doubt as to who her father was. There was never much of a Tudor in her, so it seems fitting that she would be my only child never to set foot on English soil.

Perhaps that fact was my defining mistake. I should not have accepted Lorenzo's deal and left my eldest daughter behind when I journeyed to England. But that was what I did. I left behind a little girl who would soon face the deaths of both her father and her grandmother, the two people who were most important to her, and I was far away dealing with matters that did not bother her at all. Do not take me for a fool: I can perfectly understand why Vittoria received me back reluctantly and would never become close to me again. But that does not mean I forgive her for it, since it is my firm believe that children should respect their parents and understand that they must sometimes do what is necessary. In this, Vittoria and I differed vastly.

In a way you can say that it was this matter that we fought about after I returned to Italy in early 1530. I hurried to Rome first, of course, since it had been Giulio who had recalled me from England, and he put before me the matter which had caused my daughter's misbehaviour: Her marriage. Since she was now of age, Giulio had finally decided on a good husband for her, but Vittoria had steadfastly refused her suitor. Of course, being the Pope, Giulio had means to force her, but being her kinsman and an uncle-like figure, he had hesitated to use these means. He seemed more worried and disappointed that his negotiations were so bluntly rebuffed.

At this point I must confess that I have forgotten who Vittoria's suitor was. He was a wealthy and noble man, maybe a Sforza, but I really cannot recall anything else. What I know is that he was suitable and that Vittoria should have been happy to marry him. That was what I told her when we finally met again in Florence.

"I will not marry him," Vittoria replied coldly.

"But why not? His Holiness has put much effort and consideration into choosing your husband. Will you deny that, daughter? Do you suppose the Pope cares not for your wellbeing?"

She bit her lip nervously, as she often did, and looked out the window. "He does not know what I want."

"What is there in the world that the Pope doesn't know?" I returned sarcastically. Yes, perhaps my tone was mean, but her stubbornness bewildered and angered me. "He knows that you need a good husband so that you can bear him children and are well taken care of."

"But I don't want to marry him."

"Vittoria, this is how things work, or do you oppose the idea of marriage?"

"No, I said I don't want to marry that man in particular."

I nodded. "Ah. You are in love with someone else, little fool? Marrying for love sure is foolish… but never mind. Is he suitable? If he is, maybe His Holiness can agree to the match, even though it would be troublesome for him to rebuke the arrangements which have already…"

Vittoria interrupted me: "He is not suitable."

"Oh no, not a stable lad, is it?" I returned. "Vittoria, please, tell me what we are talking about. If the man you love isn't suitable, surely you know yourself you can never marry him. What is all the fuss about then? If you can't marry who you love, why not marry the man His Holiness has chosen for you?"

"Well, you would say that, wouldn't you? You've never truly loved…" She mumbled.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me right, I said you never loved anyone. Not my father, your husband, though perhaps what they say is true and you did love that diplomat you were so eager to fornicate with."

I hit her. I don't know what took control of me, but the moment she blurted out these accusations I became extremely angry.

"Do not speak to me that way – I am your mother! I will not have you accuse me of unfaithfulness to your father!"

"But you did not love him," Vittoria replied spitefully. "You've never loved anyone."

Her words hurt me more than she could ever know or understand because they were wrong. They were as wrong as they could be, but I would never be able to tell her otherwise. My heart clenched in pain.

"And you do? You love that lad so much that you are willing to spite your family for him? Well, what will you do, run away and live like the gypsies?" It was more of an angry joke, but when she didn't reply, I knew I had hit a nerve. "You cannot be serious. Have you no shame? Don't you know what it would mean for us as a family if you ran away like a common harlot? Vittoria, please, surely we can find a way for you to marry him – everything would be better than you shaming the family in front of everyone. I don't know, Giulio would find a title for him or something and then you…"

"It's Alfonso," she interrupted me matter-of-factly.

I stopped talking instantly, a rush of hot blood pulsing through my veins. Her words echoed in my head over and over again. Alfonso. She loved Alfonso. Memories came flashing into my mind, memories of Simonetta joking how well my new-born daughter would suit her son, and others… But ultimately, it was unbelievable that this should happen.

"You see, mother?" Vittoria asked in an ironic voice. "No matter how many sweet words you use to charm the Pope, he cannot find a way for me to marry the one I love. Going away is my only option, for I refuse to live a life of loneliness and bitterness."

"You cannot do that," I stuttered.

"Why? Tell me, mother, why can't I? Because the Pope would be miffed? Because it would make you seem like a bad mother? Or because it is morally wrong? Is this what you're telling me, that I'm an abomination? That I should be burned at the stake for being so detestably sinful? That loving your own brother is disgusting and unnatural? If that is what you will tell me, you can spare your breath, for I can think of all these accusations myself, but they won't change my mind. I know Alfonso is my brother, but I cannot help the fact that I love him."

I could have shouted at her and I would have been right to do so. Her tone, her behaviour, everything about her was disrespectful. But instead, I said something else, and I still can't remember why I told her: "He's not your brother."

Now, Vittoria's confident eyes twitched in genuine surprise. "What?"

I could have stopped then, could have told her that she had misheard me, but I went on. Perhaps it felt liberating to finally confess the truth, but perhaps I only wanted to shock her the way she had shocked me.

"Alfonso is not your father's son. It's all a ruse, a scheme, a story that we made up. None of it was true."

"Mother, what…"

"Simonetta was with child. We needed a solution. If the truth had come out… it would have been very troublesome for us all, as a family. The Pope understood. He made your father swear to accept Alfonso as his bastard and never to speak a word about it. I swore the same oath. But they're dead now… and Alfonso is not your brother."

Her voice trembling, Vittoria rose from her chair. "Who is he then? Mother? Tell me, mother, I must know! Whose son is Alfonso?"

My skin was prickling when I looked her in the eye. "Alfonso de' Medici was born of the love between Simonetta and a very handsome young soldier in the employ of the Pope, a man named Giulio… but today you had better address him as "Your Holiness"."

Silence. Vittoria's cheeks flashed red. She sat down again, trying to pick up her thoughts again. I, too, was deeply stirred by my own words. For so many years, I had neglected the truth, but now that it had passed my lips, I realised once again how explosive the matter was.

A smile appeared on my daughter's face. "But then… then he's not my brother, just a distant cousin! It's not sinful at all! We can be married!"

"No, silly," I conjured her to be silent. "Everyone thinks he's your brother, everyone but you, me, Simonetta, and the Pope. They must not believe otherwise."

"But His Holiness could tell the world. He is the Pope! He can issue a bull and then we can…"

"No." I shook my head firmly. "Daughter, can't you see what it would do to our family if everyone knew we had been living a lie for so long? Do you have any idea what it would do to Alfonso's reputation, let alone the Pope's? We Medici have prided ourselves with being unlike others – no sodomites, no simonists… no Borgias! What if the world knew the Pope had an illegitimate child? A son that he chose to inherit Florence above the lawful heir, your brother? Everyone would cry out 'nepotism'. Our reputation… everything we built up over decades… gone in a flash."

"But I…"

I grabbed her by the shoulders. "Nothing but. Vittoria, you must understand that this is bigger than you, or your love for Alfonso. This is about family."

"But I love him, mother," she said almost crying.

Do not mistake me for a heartless woman. I could feel Vittoria's pain when she looked at me like that and I wished there was a chance I could change anything about her situation. But I couldn't. You might think me cruel for denying her to marry for love, but in our time, we did not marry for love. This was a time when constant wars and plagues could claim your life at any moment, if you were lucky enough to survive your childhood at all. It was a time of perils and uncertainty in which only your family bonds kept you away from starving in the streets. Our lives were a constant struggle for survival. Love was optional.

"Sadly though, your love does not matter."

"But I will not renounce it. I will not marry the man His Holiness has chosen. I would rather be a nun!"

I nodded. "Fine. I know a cloister in Rome where you can stay and I will make sure you stay there until you have changed your mind."

"No, you can't!"

"I can and I will. I am your mother and this folly has continued for far too long. Either you marry the man or you take the veil. But I will not allow you to ruin your entire family. I will say no more about the matter."

Of course I did not want to send her away or to keep her from her lover, but it was the only way to keep her from committing a great mistake. She never forgave me for it. In my weak mother's heart, I often regret what I did to her then, especially since it would later turn out to be in vain, but my pragmatic mind always reminds me that I was right. I did what I considered best for my daughter, for Alfonso, and for all of us. It wasn't kind or fair, but then again, life is never fair. I saved the Medici reputation for a while, but my success came at much too high a cost:

The love of my daughter left me forever.


	9. Francis

_AN: Thank you for the reviews and welcome back! This week, Elizabeth finally gets to love again, but will it be happily ever after? And please stick around until next week when we will meet Henry's third queen._

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NINE – Francis and me

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In 1531, my spirits were as low as they had never been before. My daughter Vittoria was in the convent still and refused to answer my letters as did Alfonso, who thought I had sent her there to keep their incestuous love a secret. Florence was no longer a warm place for me, but neither was Rome, for Giulio had become more and more drunk with power and less interested in the opinions of women. So I stayed in Sant'Andrea de Percussina, where I had bought the mansion once belonging to my old friend Niccoló. Fortunately, my remaining three children kept my company, as did Simonetta. She, too, had lost her son's favour when she had stuck to me rather than him over his matter with Vittoria.

It was all a mess. And then in September, a comet dashed over France, fascinating an aged noblewoman so much that her heart stopped beating. Unfortunately, that woman was Louise of Savoy, a lady I proudly called my friend. Just like me, she had been widowed at a young age, and this shared fate along with our taste for politics had long ago initiated many years of exchanging letters. We had conversed and we had plotted, but more importantly, I had kept her informed about Italian affairs while she had notified me about anything worth noticing at the French court. She was my most valuable French source because, you see, Louise of Savoy was the mother of King Francis I.

When she died, we had just been negotiating for my son Alessandro to join the French court and be educated alongside the dauphin to become a knight and gentleman. With her death, my hopes for my fifteen-year-old son began to fade. I had never spoken to Louise's children (although she had often encouraged me to do so), but I assumed that neither of them possessed the open mind their mother had had. Neither Marguerite of Navarre nor the King of France would want anything to do with the children of Italian merchants, as Europe often saw us, and without the intercession of Louise, they would not change their minds.

"But maybe the lady was right all along and her son is a sensible man. If you were to go to her funeral and meet him yourself, maybe you could find a means to convince him of accepting Alessandro," Simonetta suggested. "You can be quite persuasive at times… I mean, you charmed the most powerful man in Europe to free us from prison! What challenge is the King of France then, eh?"

First, I laughed at her words, but after a few days they began to seem more and more plausible. Yes, I had won the favours of some important and powerful men before, why not King Francis? All I needed was to convince him that my son was not just some Italian upstart, but also of noble English lineage, and that it would be advantageous having him at court. It was worth giving it a try.

This is how I met Francis: At a funeral. The man whose wars and defeats had brought me into prison in Castel Sant'Angelo was finally before my eyes. What was he like?, you might wonder. Who was Francis? Well, he was sorrowful and quiet when I first met him, but seeing that it was his beloved mother's funeral, it appears to be only natural. Yet despite his visible pain, Francis was still a sight to behold: Tall, dark-haired, and well-clothed, you could not do anything but admit that he was a handsome man even though he was no longer young. I guess it was the way his eyes often smiled a bit cheekily that contributed most to his charms. Many women were attracted to his prepossessing looks – and I was no different.

Is that shocking to you? Does it seem weird that I, mere woman that I was, felt physical desire when I met the King of France? I know that in the eyes of men, women do not like sex as much as they do, that we only comply with their wishes because it was God's law, but it's not true. At least not for me. I have always enjoyed the touch of men and also their company at night. Love, including its physical sides, has always been a very pleasant matter for me which I desired not only for the man's sake, but also to satisfy my desires. Of course I knew better than to always act upon my desires, for if I had always followed them, I would have caused many a scandal after Lorenzo's death. But whatever affair I might have had, I always remembered to keep a low profile. Noble men were expected to have mistresses, but noble women would be called harlots if they did the same. Seeing what it had done to Anne Boleyn and others, I could not risk this kind of reputation, for my children's sake.

But despite all the rational reasons against it, I instantly wanted Francis. It was an impossible folly, of that I was sure, yet unfortunately I have been attracted to impossible follies for all my life. I was certainly playing with fire when I asked to stay at the French court after Louise's funeral. I had entered a snake pit filled to the brim with venomous serpents who would gladly devour me for their breakfast. But to get my prize, to secure my son's education and win Francis over, I would have to manoeuvre through it.

Fortunately, fate now seemed to be working in my favour again. A few weeks after Louise's funeral, I received permission to stay in France for Christmas, while at the same time I was notified that the King's mistress had left court to spend Christmas with her husband. Only a day later, I was invited to discuss my proposal concerning Alessandro with King Francis himself – in private. When the groom led me through the back door, I already knew that something was about to happen.

Do you know the feeling just before a thunderstorm breaks loose? The grumbling of roaring thunder, dark clouds piling up, the cracking and sizzling in the air? This is how it felt to finally meet Francis alone. For days we had been exchanging flirtatious remarks whenever we met at court, hoping that no one noticed. Something needed to follow now. I was trembling with anticipation.

First, we spoke about my son Alessandro and his prospects of joining the French court. Francis seemed quite positive about the matter, assuring me that my son would do well and could even find a suitable French bride if that pleased me.

"If he is only half as charming as his mother, he will have his way with the ladies of my court," Francis told me in his wonderfully soothing voice.

"You are flattering me, Majesté."

He smiled in a way which as purely irresistible. "I had hoped to."

I lowered my gaze, suddenly feeling like a young woman again. Blood rushed to my cheeks. "I… have noticed that your mistress, the Duchess d'Etampes, has left court."

"I arranged for it. So we could be alone," he nodded.

His words literally forced me to raise my head again and look him in the eyes, my heart pounding. Was he really showing his cards, had he really sent her away for my sake?

"Forgive my impetuosity, Madame. I did not mean to inconvenience you or force your hand…" And with this, he proceeded to take my hand into his. "Only I wish to profess my admiration for you beauty, and your wits, both of which I had heard tales about which I had not expected to be true. I need to apologise for being like Thomas and demanding proof, yet here you are, more proof than any man could need, and I must admit that I find myself quite taken with you. It may seem odd, but…"

I'll never know what he wanted to add after this "but". My cheeks burning red and my heart pounding like a drum, I dared to interrupt the King of France by leaping forward and kissing him. I was waiting for a sign of rejection, of objection, but instead I received affirmative reactions. He would later tell me how much he had been thrilled that a woman could be so bold and take up action, but he needn't have told me that. I felt his excitement quite clearly when we kissed and in every minute that followed. It may no longer surprise you, but there and then, I became the King of France's lover.

The time we had been granted was short and intense. Whenever he could, Francis would steal away from his matters to meet me in secrecy. It was a dangerous gamble knowing how prone courtiers were to gossip and how badly both of us wanted to avoid our affair becoming public. Francis understood that my reputation was at stake and frankly, I think he could also make assumptions on how my brother would react if he knew. Harry and Francis were similar in so many ways, which naturally leads to rivalry and competition. If Harry knew that Francis was bedding his sister… But he would never know, Francis promised.

We were playing hide and seek with the entire French court and to some extent, I must admit I found it thrilling. The constant danger of being caught only brought us together closer, at least for the time being. Of course, deep down below, I knew we could never go on like this for long. Once Anne de Pisseleu returned, she would certainly notice the difference in Francis, and she would not hesitate to expose us. Our days were numbered, of that I was sure. But on Christmas Eve, I realised that Francis himself thought differently.

"Marry me," he whispered in my ear as we lay in his bed after making love. Outside, night had already fallen, and the only sound we could hear was our own heavy breathing.

"What?"

He smiled. "Marry me. Be my wife, my queen."

"You are making fun at my expense," I scolded him, but when he shook his head, my tone became more serious. "I couldn't marry you, silly. You are married already."

"Only in name. I never consented to the marriage, which has not even produced any princes for me, so I would not hesitate to have it annulled."

I shook my head now. "And thus anger the Emperor? She is his sister after all."

"Well, I heard you were on good terms with him. It is even rumoured that it was your intervention that made him consent to the annulment of his aunt's marriage. Why not that of his sister? Surely you could find a means to placate his conscience. I have every confidence in you."

I sat up straight, shaking my head once more. "Francis, do not make a fool of yourself. I cannot. Even if there was a way, even if I could convince Carlos, I would still be the wrong choice. I am too old to bear you children, Francis."

"If you are, why have we been this cautious all the time, then?" He grinned. "Do not trouble yourself, for I do not consider you old by any means. And even if it were true, I would not mind. I have enough children to secure my line, but what I don't have is a woman like you in my life."

"I… it… it wouldn't work. No, Francis, it cannot be."

He sighed deeply and turned his face to the bed's canopy. For a moment I feared he was going to get angry, but then he simply said: "We were once meant to be betrothed, did you know that? When we were children, our fathers had begun negotiations, but it was later decided I should marry Claude to secure my right to the throne." He paused. "If only I had married you straight away."

"If you had, you might have never become king of France, and your children would have never lived, nor would mine," I reminded him.

"Yes, yes, I know!" He sounded impatient. "But how different could things have been? Can't you imagine it, just for a second? Your blood and mine in one being – how great our children would be. They could rule Europe, all of it."

I hesitated. Why? It wasn't a lack of admiration for him, certainly not. I liked him better than I had ever liked my husband. It also wasn't the possible consequences of his divorce from Eleanor, even though they could be quite dramatic, or the fact that my childbearing years were all but over. No, if I have to be really honest, the reason for my refusal was that I did not wish to be married again. I had spent so many years as a widow, free from the rule of men and mistress of my own self. I wasn't willing to give that up, even for Francis.

"It is not too late for that. Mixing our blood, I mean," I told him to make his mind wander off the idea of our marriage.

For a second he seemed puzzled, but then he nodded energetically. "Yes. I have children, as do you. And coming to think of it, my son, the Duke of Orléans, will soon be of nubile age. I take it you too have a daughter his age?"

"Yes, Caterina."

"Caterina," he repeated smiling. "If she is anything like her mother, my son should consider himself blessed to wed her, don't you think?"

My jar dropped open. He was truly considering it! I had been fearful that he would want nothing to do with my children because their parental lineage was that of merchants, but now he was even considering allowing one of them into his family!

"You would make my daughter Duchess of Orléans?"

"I would make you queen of France if I could," Francis replied and kissed my hand. "But if you so sternly refuse my offer, at least allow me to dream of the grandchildren we might share."

A tear found its way into my eyes because his words were so beautiful to me. I nodded. "Yes. Only… I need to ask His Holiness's permission first. I do not think he would object to us having blood ties with the noble House of Valois, but he is the head of my family and deserves to be informed."

"Of course. But, as you say, what else could he say but yes? It is a splendid offer and the more I think about it, the more I like it," Francis stated. "Henri is such a lucky boy."

"In this, he is just like his father," I returned smiling.

Francis frowned. "How so?"

"Well, you may not have me as your wife, but you have me in your arms. No other man can claim embracing the most beautiful woman in Europe right now."

He laughed heartily, then kissed me, then laughed again. "Oh Madame, it is so delightful to witness your vanity. You are your brother's sister after all!"

I looked him in the eyes, smiling darkly, and asked: "Do you really wish to think about my brother right now?"

Of course, he didn't, he would rather love me as long as he could. Our time was limited, after all. The New Year soon came and with it Madame d'Etampes, who clearly would have loved to shame me before all of Europe if she knew I had taken Francis away from her. I know I could have fought for him, I could have had him for myself if I had accepted his proposal, but I chose not to. I did so for the sake of my freedom and for my children's sake. So I returned to Italy and left Francis behind.

Did I miss him? Did my heart ache? Yes. Yes, of course. As I told Vittoria, I am not heartless. But I focussed on other things. I met with Giulio to discuss the matter of Caterina's marriage, and luckily he had no objections whatsoever. It took a while for the betrothal to be finalised, but I knew it would come to pass. In 1533, I finally returned to France to take part in the only wedding ceremony Francis and I would ever share: His son, Henri Duke of Orléans, married my youngest daughter Caterina. I felt very proud that day and enjoyed the fact that I could legitimately be close to Francis without Madame d'Etampes getting jealous.

We met again in private that night, but it was to be our last night. Our passion had faded somehow, and I think we both realised that after we had made love. It was an awkward situation; neither of us wanting to articulate our thoughts. Then I got dressed again and left. Do not misunderstand me: Francis and I did not part on unamiable terms. But whatever excitement we had felt the year before had now vanished and we both acknowledged that fact. Things only started to fall apart when, a few weeks later, I was truly in need of a friend – and Francis refused me.

He refused me for political reasons and I cannot say that they were unjust, but on a personal level, I was absolutely hurt. I understand why he did what he did. But foolish little me, I had somehow thought that he still cared enough for me to thwart politics. I was mistaken. So this is what I learned about men: Never trust the promises they make when they are happy and never make yourself dependent on them. We women are only as strong as the men we control, but we should never be fooled by our own game. With Francis, I was, and I paid the price for it.

But I shall tell you about these events in more detail when I speak about the person they led me to: Jane.


End file.
